Painted Love Letters by Catherine Bateson Read Free Book Online

but often it does. Do you know, Chrissie, when I first met your mum’s father, we’d drive off in his car, he had an MG then, very smart, and we’d drive down to Watson’s Bay or Coogee. We’d sit for hours watching the waves. Sometimes we’d kiss, but a lot of the time we’d talk, planning our life. We were going to have five children, three boys and two girls. We were going to build a big house somewhere and I was going to have a garden full of roses out the front, vegies out the back. I was going to have chooks, too I loved chooks. He was going to drive off every day and come home every evening when the children would be all rosy from their baths. We’d sit in the evening and read, or listen to the radio.’
    â€˜But you only had Mum, you didn’t have five kids.’
    â€˜No, that’s right. In the end I could only have one child. We didn’t need a big house after all. Keith drove off every day, and came home as he promised and there were his girls, that’s what he called your mother and me, and Rhetta would be all rosy from her bath, but we didn’t sit together in the evening because there was always some work to do. And then Rhetta went to school and I did this and that. She grew into a leggy girl with a mind of her own, always shouting at me. And then Keith keeled over, just crumpled up one day.’
    â€˜Oh Nan,’
    â€˜Don’t cry, Chrissie, that’s not the point. The point is that once upon a time, I was a dreamer and somewhere along the way I forgot how to be. Your father’s helped me find that girl again.’
    â€˜Is it true that you’ve met someone?’
    Nan laughed and bent right down to my mattress and slipped her arms around me, lifting me into a hug, ‘I’ve met a lot of people,’ she said, ‘I’ve met my yoga teacher, I’ve met my Italian teacher. Do you know, I’ve talked to more people this past month than I do all year round in Sydney?’
    â€˜That’s not what I meant.’ I could smell her perfume. It wasn’t the powdery scent that clung to her during the day, but a deeper smell, with roses.
    â€˜Yes. Yes, I have met someone.’
    â€˜Is that why you’ve bought jeans? Mum said she’s never seen you in jeans ever in her entire life. Dad said that was a shame, because they looked good on you.’
    â€˜That was nice of your dad and no, I didn’t buy jeans because of Badger, I bought them because I’ve never worn them and I wanted to, just to see if I liked wearing them.’
    â€˜Is Badger the bloke? And do you like wearing them?’ I was feeling sleepy now. I’d felt sleepy the moment Nan had put her arms around me, as though her perfume was a spell, a sleeping spell winding into my brain.
    â€˜Yes, Badger’s the bloke, and yes, I like jeans. Good night, Chrissie, good night.’
    Badger came round after that, for dinner. Nan fussed in the kitchen with all Mum’s cook books spread across the table. She wasn’t used to it, she said. In the old days she would have just cooked a good plain roast but now we were all vegetarians, it was difficult. Mum got home and instead of heading straight for the shower and spending hours in there, washing the grease out of her hair, she put on her apron and made soothing noises at Nan as they both mixed and stirred. They made ravioli, just like they did in Italy, Nan said, and the kitchen smelled peaceful and warm. It reminded me of Nurralloo, when Mum would let me help her cook, but I didn’t really want to help this time. I just wanted to sit watching Mum and Nan.
    Badger arrived with bottles of wine, flowers for Nan and Mum and some tiny, brightly coloured fruit, nestled like little ornaments in a box like a chocolate box.
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked.
    â€˜Marzipan fruit,’ he said.
    â€˜It looks so real,’ I said sticking out my finger and delicately nudging a miniature